Gabriel don't you blow your trumpet 'til you hear it from me

There were a handful of civil war grave stones in a little corner of land not far from the farm where I grew up. They had no names on them, or very faint ones at best. They leaned like loose teeth in a broken mouth. Some had fallen, grass twisting around them as they sank into the soft, wet earth. 

I marvelled at them, trying to grasp how old they were, how long they stood here, what widows and widowers had visited them, the flowers and remembrances that must have dotted the ground until they became forgotten, unknown soldiers that stood watch over nameless graves. But still, a lopsided fence surrounded them, they had the respect of strangers. A man lived in a trailer home right next to them. I remember borrowing spigots for the maple trees from him in Spring when the sap ran sweet and fast. He had a kind face and weathered palms. I think he had been a soldier at one point in his life.

Where Wall Street meets Broadway in downtown Manhattan, there is a little cemetery next to Trinity Church, as old as that one from my childhood. Every time I am in New York, I try to pass it and if there is time, wander the path that snakes through them for a few minutes. The grass is cut regularly here, smelling of rainwater and wet leaves. The stones stand quite straight, taking into account how old they are. Miniature flags dot the empty spaces between them, baby stars, tiny stripes. Generals are buried here, I imagine.

There is a grace to these corners of the world. A hush. A peace.